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Book of RamLling,s 

Bits of Homely Philosophy 

Written For My Friends, 

The Public 



By 
Myra Williams Jarrell 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

Dedication A f 5 J^^ 

THIS little book is lovingly dedicated to 
those who have rambled with me in 
the Garden of Memory, and gathered 
a few posies to put between the covers 
of an old book; those who have stepped with 
me into the Kitchen of Life, where dwell the 
lowly ones of the earth; those who have 
danced with me upon the Glades of Child- 
hood, and glimpsed the joy of imperishable 
youth, 

MY READERS. 



Copyri^ted by Author 1913 
2 

DEC30I9I3 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

CONTENTS 

Page 

That Man of One 5 

The Room of Long Ago 10 

A Grouch and Twenty Years - - - 15 

Married People's Jokes 21 

The Fear of the Casual Visitor - - - 24 

The Haunted House 30 

The Art of Letter-writing - . - - 35 

The Woman Who Had a Grievance - 39 

The Bad Little Girl 44 

A Dream of Affluence 49 

My Neighbor 53 

The Wall a Woman Built - - - 57 

The Man Who Wanted to Help - - 60 

A Tribute 65 

Teacher 70 

A House Cleaning 75 

The Woman Who Dreamed - - - - 80 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

By Albert T. Reid 

Page 

'The Casual Visitor" 25 

'The Bad Little Girl" 45 

'The Man Who Wanted to Help" - - 61 

'The Woman Who Dreamed" - - - 81 



Printing Department, KANSAS FARMER, Topeka, Kansas. 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

That Man of One 

HE was just a little boy when you first knew 
him. Just a little, towsly-headed, freckle- 
faced, snub-nosed boy. There probably were 
patches on his pants, and his galluses didn't 
join, but you never noticed it. Then, as now, 
love was blind, and that blessed blindness 
which has ever been a boon to women, con- 
cealed his defects. He whispered behind his 
hand when the teacher was looking the other 
way, and drew funny pictures on his slate. 
Likely as not, it was a caricature of you, with 
hair ribbon adorning the end of your pigtail, 
out of all proportion to the few hairs it con- 
tained. Maybe, too, he drew you cross-eyed, 
and slant-mouthed. Undoubtedly he did, for 
everything looked funny to his sense. And 
everything he did, even the cross eyes and 
slant mouth; yes, even the face he made at 
you, to convince Johnny Jones that he felt 
only contempt for a Mere Girl, seemed funny 
to you then. Something within you responded 
to something within him. The same some- 
thing which caused him to turn handsprings 
as he passed you on the road going home from 
school, looking at you all the time out- of the 
corner of his eye to see if his prowess was 
making the impression he intended it should 
upon your youthful mind. 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

But he did not remain long a towsly-haired 
boy with the one freckle which spread over 
his entire face, with patches on pants and un- 
strung galluses. When next he dawned upon 
your notice he was an athletic High School 
boy, training for football, with long hair, wide 
trousers and clothes generally hung with care- 
ful carelessness. He would not learn to dance, 
and that was a cross to you, for dancing had 
become a passion by that time, and you found 
your feet and heart tripping in time to every 
harmonious sound of music. Still it was a sat- 
isfaction to you that his ears were clean, and 
that he was willing to chat with you lightly 
about team work, and the studies that you had 
in common. Then, too, he treated you to soda 
water at the corner drug store, on rare and 
treasured occasions. He usually was very red 
in the face at such times, and showed an un- 
comfortable tendency to dodge when any of 
his acquaintances came into the store. But 
you didn't mind — oh, dear, no! You fluifed 
your hair and bit your lips to show your dim- 
ples, and crooked your little finger as you 
drank, to show that you were familiar with all 
the little elegances of polite society, and felt, 
all at once, horribly grown up. 
(?» ^ ^ 

And then he changed again! He had big 
mournful eyes with soulful expression. He 

6 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

played the mandolin and chanted ballads of 
sweet passion to you in a tuneless little voice. 
He satisfied that period of your development 
which made of life such a serious, sad thing. 
He knew instinctively that you carried a bur- 
den far too heavy for your slender shoulders. 
You did not need to tell him that you were 
unappreciated in your home circle. That 
Father was engrossed in business, and did not 
realize his rare privilege in rearing a genius. 
That Mother was too busy in looking after the 
cares of the household to sympathize wholly 
with your ad astra per aspera temperament. 
That Brother Tom was rough and uncouth, 
and openly ridiculed your choicest sentiments. 
That Sister Ann wasted no time watching from 
the housetops in your interests, but mimicked 
your refined manners in the privacy of the 
family; that the family cruelly found her vul- 
garity amusing, He was the only person in 
the whole world who understood you. And 
you adored him for it! You adored the length 
of his eyelashes, and the delicate eflfeminacy 
of his face. His mouth, with its curved red 
lines, was a poem to you — a poem of which 
you never tired. That is, not for some time. 

^ 3f 3^ 

After a while you began to find a sameness 
in his voice, in his expression of sympathetic, 
soulful, high-class passion. Disillusion fol- 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

lowed the discovery of monotony, and for a 
few years you did not believe in yourself, or 
your capacity for constant love. You scoffed 
at the tender passion, and were cold and un- 
touched by the love offered you by other men. 

0* 0» Ijw 

And then he came back to you — this com- 
posite man of yours. You never noticed the 
color of his eyes, nor the length of his hair. 
You did not know whether his mind ran in 
Ibsenesque channels or was commercial. You 
knew only that it was he. You listened in a 
trance to his avowal of love. You never ques- 
tioned him. You never looked behind. In- 
deed, you saw only the precious present, and 
the long vista of dreams stretching out ahead, 
indefinite, but unspeakably sweet with prom- 
ise. You look back even now upon that period 
and you are thrilled by its remembrance! 
,^ 5 ^ 

And then the Man of One changes. The 
lover is merged in the husband. There may 
at times be lacking the romance, which marked 
his passage across your life from that first 
little tow-headed love, who likely as not deliv- 
ers groceries at your back door now — but 
something has taken the place of that romance, 
something deeper, finer, more substantial. 

You have, with that man of yours, waited 
in breathless anxiety beside a little crib; in 

8 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

voiceless agony watched a little life almost 
flicker out — to be wafted back to you like a 
breath from Heaven. And the union of your 
two souls at that moment— your soul and the 
soul of that man of yours — who can compre- 
hend save the One Mind which knows every- 
thing! 

Shadows and sunshine alike have softly en- 
veloped the dwelling place of love, but through 
it all, the Man of One has loomed big, vital, 
instinct with life. He has changed with the 
changing years. Care and responsibility, and 
maybe sorrow, have deepened the lines on 
cheek and forehead, and touched his hair with 
silver. His form has taken on added weight 
and corpulence — proof of your material care 
of the body — but the Man himself is essentially 
the same. 

The love which must have its outlet through 
all the years has its center and circumference 
now in the Man, the husband. 

Life with that Man of One seems very real 
and good — a something to cling to — a some- 
thing to cling to through all the years to come, 
until, with the feeling of being no longer 
needed here, comes the desire to step over the 
border, you and that man of yours, hand in 
hand — just over the border, no farther, into 
that fair country which awaits you. 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

The Room of Lon^ A^o 

PROSPERITY came to a woman one day — 
it matters not how or why or whence. She 
was not totally unprepared for it, for she had 
employed most of her leisure hours building- 
Castles in Spain. 

So that, when the Call came, she knew the 
exact shade of the hangings to be used in each 
room of the beautiful house she created; she 
had seen it all in the visions she had had — the 
glimpses into the future, rosy with promise. 

This room, hung in soft grays and old blues, 
with its mahogany furniture, she had long en- 
joyed in thought; that one, with the tints of 
the autumn on wall and floor, should be fur- 
nished in golden oak. The sun parlor, with 
the cretonne hangings, and the old ivy cling- 
ing to the inner walls, reaching ever a little 
higher, should have deep, restful chairs of 
green wicker. There should stand her work 
basket, of the same design — here, a Vicker 
table strewn with magazines and a few favor- 
ite books. 

In this retreat should tea be served, brought 
in by a deft servant on a tea cart of the green 
wicker. Here, over the teacups, should a few 
choice and congenial spirits chat lightly of the 
Spiritual Uplift, the Intellectual Output, and 
the Philosophical Intake. 

10 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



When she came to dispose of the furnishings 
—possessions that had ckittered the old house 
—the woman paused. And that part of her 
that was sentimental refused to part with some 
of the dear old things that had been so closely 
identified with her past, its struggles, its bitter- 
ness, its tears, its love, and its richness of 
compensation. 

So the other woman — the prosperous, 
newly rich, the one to whom had come that 
beneficence of spirit commonly associated with 
wealth— felt that she could afford to indulge 
the sentimental caprice that had made it pain 
to part with the old. 

One room, therefore, in the new house, was 
consecrated to the preservation of such old 
possessions as were dearest. She called it, to 
herself, the Room of Long Ago. 
^ % ^ 
At first, so exhilarating was the influence 
of the new-found wealth, so exquisite and ar- 
tistic and wholly harmonious were the new 
rooms in their lovely dressing, she paid small 
heed to the Room of Long Ago. 

But one day— when an unlovely suspicion 
had entered her mind— the suspicion, un- 
founded, surely!— that her money was re- 
sponsible for her sudden popularity; one day 
when her world seemed to have gone criss- 
cross—not she, but the world; when the lovely 

11 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

new possessions seemed to hold themselves 
coldly aloof from her, she fled from them, from 
her world, and shut herself into the Room of 
Long Ago. 

She sank into the depths of an old Morris 
chair of near-mahogany, and velour cushions 
that had faded in the sunlight of many years. 

How well she remembered the day they had 
bought it! She smiled at the recollection — 
smiled through the tears in her eyes. Her John 
had put in a few extra hours working, had re- 
ceived extra money for his services, and had 
bought it to surprise her. When she came 
down stairs for the first time after the baby 
came, John had gently put her down into its 
soft, comfortable depths, and placed the little, 
warm, cuddly form of her first-born in her 
arms. He was out in the world now, carving 
out his own niche in the world — and the arms 
which had held him were empty! 

The rug on the floor of the Room of Long 
Ago — the dear faded old rug! On it had John 
played horse with little John, the youngster 
clinging to him, shrieking with mingled joy 
and terror, as the fiery steed galloped over the 
floor. 

On the wall were pictures of big John and 
little John — yes, of herself, too— crude pic- 
tures, many of them, but so smiling and happy. 
The one of John with the baby in his arms 

12 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



might not be a work of art, such as she had in 
her downstairs drawing room, but to her, the 
pride and joy in John's face, and the roguish 
expression of little John's made it the most 
beautiful thing in the world. 

Her old desk — would she ever again sit there 
and write little nonsensical rhymes, in the hope 
that some publisher might see in them buds 
of promise! 

And the old scratched center table — with 
the reading lamp — how many evenings had 
she and John sat, one on each side, he with his 
paper and she with a book— or a bit of white 
needle work — too precious for words! 

Here, too, in after years, had little John 
labored with fractions and decimals; here, also, 
were the initials he had carved on the then 
smooth surface of the table, and for doing 
which she had punished him — as if it mattered! 
Her fingers touched lovingly the letters, and 
she bit her lips to keep back the tears. 

The little china dog on the mantle John had 
bought the day that little John had cut his 
first tooth. A smile chased away the tears as 
she recalled how she and John had exclaimed 
over and admired the tiny pearl. 

Over in on^ corner of the room stood an 
old piano, battered and scratched and slightly 
out of tune — the one she had practiced her 
scales upon in her girlhood home. She went 

13 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

over and sat down upon the old-fashioned 
stool. She touched the keys, and they gave 
out a plaintive sound. 

Then her fingers wandered, as her mind 
went back to those early days of their struggle 
with poverty, into the old songs that she and 
her John had sung together during the tender 
days of courtship, and the beautiful days of 
their young wedded life. 

Thin, but unspeakably sweet, like a voice 
from the past, the notes spoke to her, and they 
brought to her the message of peace she had 
sought. 

tf» !?• 0* 

When her hour was ended — the little hour 
she had allowed herself from the glitter of the 
present — she left the Room of Long Ago. On 
the threshold she paused. Her eyes took in 
every detail, from the plain ruffled muslin cur- 
tains at the windows, and the homely gera- 
nium blooming in the sunshine, to the old- 
timey wall paper, and the faded rug. Her eyes 
traveled slowly from object to object, dwell- 
ing upon each one lovingly, and she whis- 
pered, ^'Always I have you to come back to, 
dear Room of Long Ago.'' 



14 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



A Grouch of Twenty Years 

SHE was twenty and she had a Grouch. She 
was young and pretty with life all before 
her- — yet she had a Grouch. An ugly, wicked 
old thing he was, and he touched her and 
smoothed out the dimples of laughter, and re- 
cast the mould of her fresh young lips, so that 
they drooped at the corners, instead of exer- 
cising Youth's prerogative, and curving up- 
ward. Over her pretty, unusually merry eyes, 
he drew a somber veil which dimmed their 
light. 

For this calumny — this lie which he put 
upon her — this disfiguring change from youth- 
ful beauty and sweetness to dourness and 
sourness — she should have dismissed him 
from her presence. But, instead, she nursed 
her ugly, old Grouch, and petted him, and kept 
him by her all of one sweet summer day — 
thereby losing that one precious, never-to-be- 
regained period. 

No young girl with her first suitor was ever 
more proud than this twenty-year-old girl was 
of her Grouch. 

''Come out and play," called her young 
companions. ''We are going to take a lunch 
and climb to the top of Mount Wilson." 

She might have gone, for when she was 
normal she liked to walk, and she enjoyed all 

15 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

the things which healthy young blood sug- 
gests. 

"You'll not go," insisted her guest, the 
Grouch. ''Let them go, and have a good time 
without you. You stay here with me." 

So she listened to him, and the gay young 
voices died away in the distance. And then, 
paradoxically, because her Grouch had med- 
dled and cheated her of her good time, she 
clung more closely to him than ever, and she 
blamed her friends, and everybody in the 
whole world because she was miserable — 
except just herself and the Grouch. 

0» ijw ^ 

Once she looked out of her window. She 
saw the wonderful lights and shadows on the 
plains, and she knew that the pines of her 
beloved mountains offered inviting shade. 
The Peak was clean-cut and glowed with pink- 
ish splendor, close up against the skyline, while 
down in the valley below some fleecy white 
clouds drifted lazily. The whole landscape 
beckoned to her and whispered, ''Come and 
sketch me." 

She glanced longingly toward sketch book, 
and palette, and other paraphernalia, for the 
artist was strong in her. 'But the Grouch, 
whom for the moment she had forgotten, 
again claimed her, and said grudgingly, ''Don't 
go. You would forget all about me, out there 

16 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

in the blessed sunshine, with the shadow of 
the pines all about you, and the Peak, with 
its majesty and stillness guarding the picture 
you would make. Stay here in this stuffy 
room. And don't look out of the window 
again — for it's dangerous to m.e." 
^ ^ ^ 

So she obeyed the behest of her ugly, ridic- 
ulous old Grouch. Her having him at all was 
ridiculous — for what concord hath a Grouch 
and Twenty Years? 

She shut out the sunshine and laughter and 
beauty and joy and gave herself up wholly to 
the entertainment of the ugly, old Grouch. 
The day wore on — the precious day which 
had begun so auspiciously — the day which 
had begun just for her — -to do with as she 
chose — to make of benefit or to waste. And 
the only use she made of it v/as to shut her- 
self up with a Grouch. 

At eventide, when the gay company of 
which she was one had gathered about the 
wide fireplace, and were toasting marshmal- 
lows and telling stories, she wearied of her 
Grouch. She had not found him very good 
company through her lost day. 

Her lusty youth finally wrestled with and 
downed him. Then she threw him out of the 
window and laughed as she saw him vanish 

17 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

like a puff of smoke — for after all, he was no 
more than that. 

The laugh brought the dimples back to her 
cheeks, and the laughter to her eyes. All the 
ugly lines of ill temper that the Grouch had 
marked on her face, smoothed themselves out 
and she was Twenty Years, minus a Grouch 
— Twenty Years — magical time of Youth! 

When she joined her companions, she be- 
came the merriest one in the bunch — all the 
more merry because she had lost so much 
time. 

''What was the matter with you today?" 
someone asked. ''How did you come to have 
a Grouch?" 

She puckered her pretty brows in thought 
a moment, and then laughed. "To save my 
soul I don't remember," she said. 

tf» tfw tjw 

Thus it usually is, when a Grouch takes up 
his (note the masculine gender) abode with 
any of us. We know not whence he came or 
why, or wherefore. We can give no satisfac- 
tory explanation as to our reason for admit- 
ting him into our consciousness. 

He is a sly, invidious, sneaking intruder who 
should be banished from civilized society. But 
he gets in some way. He has a card of en- 
trance into the most select set. It cannot be 
his appearance which entitles him to the card, 

18 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

nor can it be his genealogy, for he can claim 
no higher personages for his family tree than 
111 Temper, and Envy, and Jealousy. 

We know him for what he is. We know 
him to be the most uglifying guest we can 
admit, for beauty and he do not affiliate. We 
know that in time he is going to rob us of 
whatever of grace or loveliness we may have 
been endowed with, and that he is going to 
drive our friends away from us. 

And yet we bid him welcome. We take the 
covering from the furniture, and we ransack 
the larder of our thought for its choicest pos- 
sessions for his consumption. 

And he is very, very greedy. He gobbles 
up everything in the household worth having 
or saving. We may have some little tid-bit 
of thought we are treasuring — something we 
value too highly to have out where anyone 
can see it— something we keep in the farthest 
corner of the cupboard of our mentality, to 
be taken out in private and rejoiced over. But 
nothing is sacred to the Grouch. He seeks 
out the treasures of forbidden places- — and 
consumes them. 

M ^ ^ 

A Grouch and Twenty Years! An anach- 
ronism, surely! We may smile in amusement 
at it — and welcome back the dimples, which 
never remain long away, while the heart is 
young. 

19 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

But a Grouch and Forty, Fifty, or Sixty! 
Heaven save us from the contemplation! 

Yet there isn't such a great stretch as one 
might imagine, between Twenty, and Forty, 
or Fifty, or Sixty. 

And the Grouch who gains entrance to the 
consciousness of Twenty — how he chortles 
with glee — for he knows that by his touch he 
can convert Twenty into Forty. And he 
knows that if Twenty Years opens the door 
and lets him in — he will have lodgement, off 
and on — through all the years — till Twenty 
Years have merged into Forty and Fifty and 
Sixty — and the face of Twenty Years has be- 
come seared and scarred by the fires of ill 
humor he has kindled. 

^ ^ rfS 

BUT— sometimes a blessed word— there is 
one virtue a Grouch possesses — and that is 
timidity. He is easily discouraged. He will 
knock at your door — like Opportunity. And, 
like Opportunity — though Ingalls' beautiful 
poem proclaims otherwise — he will come back 
and knock again. 

He will even peer in through the closed shut- 
ters of your house, through which he can see 
the light streaming, to see if you are at home 
— -for he's a sneaking, prying fellow. 

But if he continues to knock, and you do 
not open, he will give a sigh of renunciation, 

20 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

and pass on. Heed this, dear, sweet, joyous 
Twenty Years— and let your blinds be drawn 
and your door tightly closed — -^nd keep your 
dimples and your sunshine and the merry 
light in your eyes through all the years to 
come. 



Married People's Jokes 

Two bright and interesting young women 
were discussing Married People's Jokes in 
my hearing, not long ago, in no uncertain 
tones. I asked them to enumerate some, to 
see if ''Among those present" were those of 
my childhood recollection. I found that they 
were, and after I was left alone, they passed 
in mental review before me, those Married 
People's Jokes, in squads and batallions. 

Some there were, moss-grown and gray, but 
still time-honored. Some had an assumption 
of jauntiness, some showed the marks of age. 
Some there were that were cruel, some sensual 
and vulgar, many that were vapid, more that 
were meaningless. 

In all stages of preservation and decay, they 
passed before me. Some made no effort to 
conceal their years, even glorying in the fact 
that they had survived more fitting ones. 
Som.e there were, with haggard faces, some 

21 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

who strove with hair dye and wrinkle remov- 
ers to keep up an appearance of youth. 

Some were active, some lagged behind, and 
some there were who stepped to one side, to 
let the stragglers pass. And the road they 
took led to the place where Love lies buried 
— not, perhaps, the whole body of Love, but 
the fair and beautiful heart of it, while there 
remains but the outer garment, the semblance 
of what has been. 

One Joke there is, the oldest born, who had 
his birth in the Garden of Eden, and who has 
been parading himself ever since. It is the 
ancient one, that SHE did the Proposing. He 
is so old — so very old, and toothless, that he 
can no longer wound. 

Then the one about He being Her Last 
Chance. He, too, is beginning to feel his age, 
and to wonder if, after all his years of service, 
he may not soon retire. 

I saw the twin Jokes, about His Next, and 
Her Next, capering as actively as though they, 
too, had found the Fountain of Perennial 
Youth. There was one so gaily caparisoned, so 
lively, that at first glance I took her for a new 
one, and might have continued so thinking, 
had I not heard the other Jokes whispering 
among themselves. One said: ''She puts on 
so much war paint that she fools some people. 
But I remember that when I was a mere in- 

22 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

fant, she was going about with her skirts down, 
and her hair up." Then, on closer inspection, 
I saw that the Joke under discussion was that 
antedikivian one about the things He would 
do, when She went 'To the Country, Hooray, 
Hooray!" 

One little fellow I saw — he looked so small, 
so harmless — yet I believe he is the most dan- 
gerous Joke of all. He was born of the mod- 
ern custom of swapping wives and husbands 
at theaters and balls. He might more properly 
be called an Innuendo than a Joke. His older 
brother used to be, not a Joke, but a Tragedy, 
and he was never mentioned in the families 
in which he dwelt — only by the neighbors, 
and then in whispers, that the children might 
not hear. 

This small joke, this Innuendo — about Her 
Husband's Case with Her Dearest Friend^ — is 
very proud of his position in society, and 
boastfully proclaims that he belongs exclu- 
sively to the Smart Set. For in circles less 
smart, men and women who are wedded still 
plod along in the good old-fashioned way, each 
woman with her own instead of her friend's 
husband. 

There are so many of these Jokes, alas, that 
it is impossible to enumerate them all. But 
you know them when they happen along. 
And, knowing them, you realize that each one 

23 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

carries a poisonous dart, aimed at the heart of 
Love. 

It is a wonder that any girl or young man 
can dare to venture into matrimony when on 
all sides they hear these Married People's 
Jokes. Their salvation lies in the fact that 
they believe themselves to be immune from 
them. And so they will be, if they are v/ell 
mated, and if they both sincerely try to do their 
part tov/ard cementing the ideal relationship 
they have pictured, during the betrothal stage. 

Married People's Jokes, like tramps, leave 
their chalk-mark on the gate of the household. 
And happy that couple upon whose gate is 
written, that all Jokes that run may read: 
'This is no place for Jokes. You would starve 
to death for lack of sustenance here. Go on 
to the next place, where may be found food 
and lodgement." 



TKe Fear of tKe Casual Visitor 

THE Great Fear of Woman, is for the 
Casual Visitor. Everything else sinks 
into obscurity, beside that haunting Fear, the 
Thing which pursues her relentlessly through- 
out her length of days. She takes it with her 
to bed, and she awakens to find it sitting on 
her chest grinning at her, when the dawn of 

24 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

a new day breaks. The Fear of the Casual 
Visitor! 

^ tif 39 

How many lives it has all but wrecked. 
How much domestic infelicity it is responsible 
for. It drives Woman, like a galley slave, 
through the sweet smelling days of Spring, 
on through the torridity of the summer months 
— past the autumn, with its luring tints on the 
foliage, on into the short, dark days of winter, 
until one year is merged into another year and 
yet another. 

Then when the hands are still, and the heart 
at rest from earthly worries, and not till then, 
is Woman free from the Great Fear which took 
up its abode with her when she assumed the 
responsibility of housekeeping. 

^ d9 ^ 

''Come and rest a while on the porch and 
feast on this beautiful panorama of green and 
gold and violet, which is spread out all over 
the landscape — just for you — for you," urges 
Woman's other self, the Play-Lady, she of the 
Dreams, who is always trying to hitch her 
wagon to a star — what does SHE know of the 
Fear? 

She has no cognizance of the Casual Visitor, 
who is liable to drop in at any time and find 
the beds unmade, and the dishes unwashed. 

''Oh no," Woman hastily answers with a 

26 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

sigh of renunciation, turning her back squarely 
upon her tempter, ''Oh, no, I have no time to 
look at the view. 1 must get my house all in 
order. Some One might come." 

She is afraid of the Casual Visitor! But 
the Play Lady, she of the Dreams, is strangely 
persistent, especially when she is aided and 
abetted by a glimpse of green pastures, and 
distant hills, and flecks of clouds which in 
themselves, furnish entertainment for hours 
upon hours for imaginative temperaments. 

''Steal a little time," whispers the Play 
Lady, she of the Dreams, "just sit still a wee 
bit, and let the Silence tell you all the lovely 
things it has to tell, if you will but listen." 

"But I can't," stubbornly reasserts that 
practical, workaday woman, thinking of the 
thing which never leaves her, the Great Fear. 
^ ^ ^ 

And so she is driven, day in and day out, 
deadening as far as she is able, that Other 
Part of her, that shiftless, lazy, unpractical 
Play Lady, SHE of the Dreams. 

But there are days — oh, such tedious, work 
laden days — when she knows that a little way 
down the road, the golden rod is blooming for 
her, just waiting for her to come and pick 
armsful of it, to make her house riotous with 
its joyous color. Days when she can close her 
eyes and see the red of the sumach, and the 

27 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

tawny tints of the maples, in the woods just a 
little way oflf — such a little way. She knows 
that the water is flowing sleepily under the 
old stone bridge, with the overhanging 
branches of wild grapes, joining in the chorus 
of invitations that are clamorously backing 
up the Play Lady, She of the Dreams, who 
insistently urges a cessation of duties — duties 
which are constantly being pushed to the fore- 
ground by the Fear. 

<?• tf» ^ 

''Come out into the woods with a good 
book," the Play Lady whispers. ''It's a fine 
day for reading and assimilating." 

"And it's a fine day for baking, so I'm going 
to bake a cake." 

"But why?" persists that flighty creature, 
the Play Lady, who is strangely thick 
skinned, and will not stay put, but perpetually 
tries to stick her nose into the Everyday wom- 
an's business, forsooth ! 

"Some one might come, and I wouldn't 
have a thing in the house to eat." 

"Some one. Some one, pooh," scoflfs the 
Play Lady, who has been badly brought up, 
and never taught the value of Common place 
Things — "Feed 'em bread and butter and let 
'em look at the view." 

"I can't," pleads the Woman, longing to 
yield. For even into the Everyday Woman's 

28 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

consciousness sleeps the love of nature. *'Even 
if I didn't have to bake a cake, the back cellar 
steps have to be scrubbed." 

''Why?" Did you ever hear of any one so 
silly as that Play Lady with her eternal ''Why, 
why?" "You do not think the Some One you 
have been expecting every day for twenty 
years, is going down to examine the back cellar 

steps, do you?" 

ij» j» 1^ 

But it's all of no use. The Play Lady, She 
of the Dreams, thinks she is pretty important. 
But she does not loom up big against the hori- 
zon like the Great Fear, the Fear of the Casual 
Visitor. And perhaps some day — it's a sad 
thing to contemplate — but some day maybe, 
that gay, merry, beauty loving Part of Wom- 
an, the Play Lady, She of the Dreams will be- 
come less insistent, and will finally be crushed 
into silence by the Juggernaut which domin- 
ates the days of the Everyday Woman. Her 
voice will be stilled and there will then be no 
rival to the Great Fear, which will enjoy its 
Reign of Terror, without interruption by the 
poor, little, well-meaning, but useless Play 
Lady, She of the Dreams. 



29 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

TKe Haunted House 

THEY say that the house is haunted, the 
supertitious folk in the village mountain 
retreat where you spent so much of your girl- 
hood, your early womanhood, and your young 
motherhood. And so it is to you, haunted with 
sweet memories of long gone pleasures, of 
joyous reunions with loved ones, of merriment 
and laughter, and of tender associations. 

It stands aloof from the village, in, but not 
of it — the dear old house of hallowed recollec- 
tions. And perhaps, because it stands a lonely 
sentinel upon the Mountain of Bye-gone Days, 
the village thinks it is queer, and haughty, and 
— dififerent, somehow. And because the vil- 
lage cannot grasp the subtle something that 
separates it from the village, pronounces the 
curse upon it, and says it is a haunted house. 

S9 ^ ^ 

You sit on its wide, hospitable porch, that 
one time rang with the laughter of a happy 
crowd, and your memory goes back to 'the 
first time you entered this haunted house. 
NOW, the boards of the porch are worn — 
worn with the passing of many feet, the danc- 
ing feet of the thoughtless young, the romp- 
ing feet of the grandchildren, and the steady 
feet of the elders, as they moved about. 

Now, the haunted house needs a coat of 

30 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

paint, and it presents a forlorn exterior to the 
curious ones who climb the hill to gaze ask- 
ance at a haunted house where people dare 
to live. 

^ ^ 3w 

But THEN — ah, then it was a gay, irrespon- 
sible young thing, bright with new paint, 
young and untried, without a past, with its 
history still to be made, its future undeter- 
mined. 

Now it has lived. It has looked on gayety 
and youth and happiness, and it has looked on 
love grown mellow with the years. It has 
seen festivity and joy. It has witnessed grief 
unspeakable. 

Then, when you came, in the pride of your 
young girlhood into the house that they now 
call haunted, the one who had always done 
his utmost to indulge you, led you into two 
rooms which were to be your very own, a 
bedroom and a sitting room completely and 
daintily furnished. In the sitting room was 
a book case for your favorite books, and a 
writing desk, where you might sit and write 
all of the silly stuff that came into your silly 
young head. 

And in the drawer of the desk, as if you 
needed one thing more to complete your hap- 
piness, was an exquisite v/atch set with jewels. 

31 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

That was but one day of all the days of 
joy that came to you in the years that followed. 
As you sit in the silence and loneliness of the 
big porch, you wonder at the love and the 
thought that was lavished upon you, when 
this haunted house, like yourself, was a gay 
young thing, without responsibility or history. 

As you gaze, with eyes that see but dimly, 
through your tears, at the vast panorama of 
cloud and plain and mountain peak, for those 
who have eyes to see, you behold the porch 
of this haunted house, peopled, indeed, with 
those who have thrilled with the glory of it 
all. 

There is one who sits with folded hands, 
gazing with keen appreciation at the view, say- 
ing little, but expressing much. 

And the one to whom you owed these sum- 
mers of ease and comfort and beauty, with 
his hat pulled down to shade his eyes, a cigar 
in his mouth, looks with the eyes of a dreamer, 
a poet and a visionary, upon the grandeur of 
the view that is peculiarily his own, because 
he discovered it. 

The porch echoes and re-echoes to the sound 
of voices long since stilled — that die away into 
silence, as you realize you are alone. 

(?• lj» !?• 

You think of a day in your maturer years, 
when the young of your own household, and 

32 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

those of your brother's and sister's, have tak- 
en their places under this hospitable roof. 

It is a gala day, for it marks an epoch in 
the lives of those two dear ones who have 
given you all of the pleasures in this house of 
haunting memories. The house has settled 
down into middle-aged quietude by this time. 
It is not so young and jaunty as of yore, and 
the grounds surrounding it are not so green 
and well kept. Yet a sweet peace has come 
upon it- — a sense of responsibility akin to that 
which has enriched your own life, for it, too, 
is making history. 

They are wearing flowers today, those two 
dear ones, he in his button hole and she in 
her hair, flowers that have been placed there 
by the hand of a child or a grandchild, it mat- 
ters not which. 

You have the flowers now — dried and wilt- 
ed, in your holy of holies, with a few tear 
blurred letters, a lock of hair, and some old 
pictures. 

But there were no tears on this day, for it 
was a joyous occasion — even the fortieth wed- 
ding anniversary of the two dear ones. There 
was laughter and singing and feasting, on this 
day that you recall, for not one loved one was 
absent, no break had occurred in the perfect 
family circle, upon that happy day. 

33 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

Before the next anniversary rolled around, 
the faithful old house had sagged a little with 
its weight of woe, for two of the circle were 
missing. And the wedded couple, who had 
aged within that year, sat with clasped hands 
and quivering lips, and eyes that vainly strove 
to pierce the veil that obstructed their view. 

Futilely did cloud and plain and mountain 
peak assume their most marvelous tints. The 
two who sat on this empty porch, gazed with 
eyes that saw not, and hearts that compre- 
hended not. They knew but one thing — they 
were bereaved. 

^ S9 5 

The subdued voices of curious tourists pene- 
trate the big porch where you sit alone with 
your memories. You catch the words, 
^'Haunted House.'^ 

You smile, as you tell yourself, without fear 
or bravado, that you rejoice in the fact that 
it IS a haunted house — a house that has lived 
and loved and enjoyed and sutfered, with 
those to whom it owes entire allegiance, and 
that it would be ungrateful indeed, for all its 
years of experience, were it not a haunted 
house. 



34 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



TKe Art of Letter-writing, 

WE hear considerable complaint nowadays 
that the art of letterwriting is a lost art. 
In one sense this is true. A generation or so 
ago, as a glimpse through any bundle of old 
letters will convince, stilted even though they 
might be as to style, a letter contained only the 
precious bits of news so refreshing to the heart 
of the wayfarer. 

Now, when Henry is away buying goods for 
the store and the letter from Back Home is re- 
ceived, he opens it with avidity, hoping that 
he will be able, after mastering its contents, to 
see the family circle, know what each one is 
doing and so keep in touch with them all. 

It does not interest Henry to know that Mrs. 
Algernon Jones is going to give a bridge party, 
and that the Hateful Old Thing has left his 
Maria out. Neither, if his Maria is of a poetical 
turn of mind, does it matter that the apple 
trees are in blossom, and shedding their prod- 
igality and fragrance all over the place. 

What our Henry wants to know is: will 
they yield a good crop this year? And did 
little Sarah pass in school? And what did the 
butcher offer for the calf? And did the last 
rain fill up the cistern? And did Johnny get 
over the stone bruises? And have they 
drowned that last batch of kittens yet? 

35 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

For our Henry has a practical turn of mind, 
and it is the practical things that appeal to him 
—all of the little everyday familiar things of 
life are of interest to him, and he cares not at 
all for abstract discussions as to whether bas- 
ques will be worn short or long, or that the 
Browning club had decided at its last meeting 
to take up the reading of Mary Jane Holmes' 
works next winter. 

,% % ^ 

There comes to my mind the vision of a 
bright and dear friend at a distance — a friend 
whose life does not touch mine save through 
correspondence; a girlhood friend whose daily 
little goings and comings would be of interest, 
since their chronicling would serve to cement 
the relationship. 

I know that she has two interesting chil- 
dren. It would be a pleasure to be made ac- 
quainted with her children through her letters. 
Instead, this is what she writes: 'The snow 
is sifting dov/n on my window pane as I write; 
great flakes of white, each one bearing its 
message of peace to me. Through the heavily 
laden branches of the tree which jealously 
guards my front walk, I catch a glimpse of the 
white world Beyond, and I sit and wonder 
what message the snow is bringing to others,'' 
etc., etc. 

36 



BOOK OF RAMB LINGS 

Very pretty, maybe — but I put her letter 
down with an unsatisfied feehng. I can go 
to my Hbrary for Hterature— but my hbrary 
cannot supply all the little information I would 
so enjoy reading about herself, her children 
and her life. 

a9 ^ ^ 

We are tending more and more to this dis- 
play of literary ability, in our letters, and less 
and less to the things that our correspondents 
really long to know. 

Now Henry is a far better correspondent 
than his Maria. He makes no attempt to 
clothe his simple news in metaphors or to have 
his ideas masquerade in borrowed finery. He 
knows what he likes to hear from Back Home, 
and by the same token he sends out his daily 
or weekly budget, as the case may be. 

His Maria may be of the sentimental sort 
who sighs because he does not tell her on every 
line, of his passionate adoration of her, his 
longing for her and the fact that the days 
seem like months while he is absent from her. 
It would be a lie if Henry should write it for he 
is having a very good time in the city and has 
no leisure for sentiment. 

He tells Maria in plain unvarnished words 
that he had been to Coney Island the night be- 
fore. That he shot the chutes and went up in 
the Ferris wheel. That his dinner cost him 80 

37 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

cents, and that he bought her a perfectly good 
percale suit at a bargain. 

c» ^ 0» 

Not long ago I received a letter from a dear 
old lady of whom I am very fond. It was 
written with a lead pencil and was nothing 
wonderful in the matter of grammatical con- 
struction or spelling. But it was right to the 
point. She told me just the things 1 wanted 
to know, told them simply and directly. 

It was like a visit with the old lady. I sat 
and smiled to myself with pleasure over the 
letter. I was able to follow her through her 
sweet, quiet life for the few weeks interven- 
ing since her last letter. 

I sat with her as she knitted on the shawl 
which was for the comfort of some one. I 
shared with her her simple repast. I assisted 
at the little task of cleaning up afterwards. 
Then I watched while she took her afternoon 
siesta, her dear old gray head leaning to one 
side of her chair, her glasses gently sliding 
down over her nose, her hands idle in her lap. 
And so, with a whispered ''good bye and God 
bless you," I left her to her pleasant dreams. 

Then I vainly tried to piece together the lit- 
tle daily occurrences in the life of my friend 
beyond the big range of hills — but found it 
a Chinese puzzle — a following of the seasons, 

38 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

one upon the other — the wonders of nature, 
with which we are all familiar. 

I recalled that in the spring I was made 
aware that the birds were singing, and that 
the crocuses were peeping from beneath their 
blankets of snow. I was informed that the 
still, hot days of summer were upon her, with 
their suggestion of drowsiness — and this was 
followed by the knowledge that the autumn 
tints were on the foilage, and that the crisp- 
ness of the air brought with it renewed vigor 
and the ambition to take up life again. But 
of that life — nothing! 

This, then, is the secret of successful letter 
writing. To write as one would talk— not as 
one would read it from Shelley or Byron. To 
tell the things the correspondent wants to hear 
— to put in the trills and thrills if one must 
— but stick to the original melody through it 
all! 



The Woman WKo Had 
a Grievance 

THE Woman who had a Grievance put a 
cake into the oven and slammed the door 
shut, for once in her life unmindful of the 
consequences. Then, with a sigh she began 
mechanically washing the bowl in which she 

39 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

had made the cake. A tear ran down her 
cheek and mingled with the dishwater. 

Perhaps the Woman who had a Grievance 
was tired. Certain it is that the temperature 
was uncomfortably high and that three meals 
a day must be prepared for her family, and 
that the house be kept in some semblance of 
order regardless of the state of the weather. 

However, the real cause of her disgruntle- 
ment was in a letter she had received that 
morning. It was one of those chatty family 
letters that soars here and there and touches 
the high places but never gets right down to 
vital matters. 

In it she learned that Cousin Sallie had a 
new electric machine, and a grand set of 
sables; that Sister Emily was going yachting 
with a party of friends; that Cousin William's 
wife had gone abroad for a year; that the 
Subner-Wilseys had had a new oil well come 
in; that Sister Janet was building a fine new 
house, and that Cousin Mary had discharged 
her chaufifeur for stealing; that the writer her- 
self, even Cousin Amelia, was having a dread- 
ful time because the cook had left and there 
were only two maids, the houseman, the 
gardener and the chauffeur left, and no pros- 
pect of another cook for a week! 

t?» tfW lj» 

It seemed the natural sequence of things 
40 ' • 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

for the woman who read the letter, to have 
a grievance. SHE had no machine, except a 
washing machine, and a sewing macliine, both 
of which she worked overtime. SHE had no 
fine house, no yaching trips or European 
tours in prospect; in addition, she had not 
even one housemaid to assist HER, but was 
cook, housemaid, gardener and seamstress, 
combined. 

Therefore — clouds had overcast the sky of 
the day that had begun promisingly enough. 
She recalled that she had felt a wave of deep 
joy, as the exquisite melody of a robin on her 
window sill had awakened her. 

She had drawn in a breath of pure happi- 
ness as she had realized that Yesterday and 
Today had blended in perfect harmony — and 
she had thanked the Giver of all good who had 
given her the strength to labor for those that 
she loved. 

0» D» tf* 

And now the spirit of thankfulness was gone 
and in its place dwelt a strange irritability and 
sense of grievance — all because of a silly 
letter! 

Nothing had changed since the day had be- 
gun — nothing but her mental concept of 
things. 

The Woman who had a Grievance sat down 
to peel the potatoes. It was such homely 

41 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

work, she told herself bitterly — not homey, 
but homely. She could not imagine Cousin 
Amelia peeling potatoes. It was hard on the 
hands, too! The Woman who had a Griev- 
ance looked ruefully down at her somewhat 
roughened hands, with a wry smile uglifying 
her face. The time had been when her hands 
had been the envy of all her women kin. 

A sudden, shrill little cry penetrated to the 
kitchen. It came from the front porch where 
the children were playing. The Woman who 
had a Grievance dropped the pan of potatoes 
and flew through the house and met her 
youngest born in the living room, on his way 
to find the consolation he sought. 

It was only that he had stubbed a little bare 
toe, but the mother clasped him to her and sat 
down in a rocking chair to ''rock the hurt 
away,'' as the baby phrased it. 

As she held the warm little body in her arms 
and kissed the tears from his cheeks and 
pushed the baby ringlets back from his moist 
brow, her mind went back to Sister Janet, 
before whose door a white hearse had stood 
one day and borne away her only child — and 
she wondered what Sister Janet would give 
to feel her baby in her arms as she held hers. 

Jw 1^ 39 

The thought surged in upon her of Cousin 
Sallie who had once been in love and seen the 

42 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

man she cared for wed another; and of Cousin 
William's wife, between whom and whose 
husband there was nothing in common, and 
who had never had a child to help her make 
a home; of the Subner-Wilseys, who were so 
rich and whose lives were so wretchedly un- 
happly and inharmonious that even the ser- 
vants pitied them, for all their money; of 
Cousin Amelia, who wrangled with her adopt- 
ed daughter who appreciated nothing that had 
been done for her. 

^ 3t n 

She knew — did this Woman who thought 
she had a Grievance, that there wasn't a wo- 
man among 'em who would not be happier if 
she had a modest little home, a husband like 
her John, and children like hers. 

When the hurt had all been rocked away 
and the baby had rejoined his brothers and 
sisters, the Woman who had thought that she 
had a Grievance, went thoughtfully back to 
her kitchen. 

She took the cake from the oven, and smiled 
at the perfect triumph of art that met her eyes. 
She sat down again to the homey task — not 
homely, this time — of peeling potatoes. 

And then, miracle of miracles, the robin that 
had awakened her that morning began to sing 
in the tree just outside her window — the same 
glad song that it had sung before — only 

43 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



MORE joyous, because the Woman who 
thought that she had a Grievance had been 



through her trial and had come through with 
the glad knowledge that God is indeed in His 
Heaven and that all's well with the world! 



The Bad Little Girl 

SHE was such a little thing — such a pretty, 
bewitching little thing — that it seemed im- 
possible that she could have incurred the dis- 
approval of any one. And besides she had only 
been here four short years — such incredibly 
short years to those who loved her, while the 
person who had disapproved of her was a 
great, big, grown-up woman, a woman old 
enough to be her grandmother. 

This woman had said she was a bad little 
girl, and that she was not to cross the bound- 
ary line that divided the houses, any more. 
The bad little girl may have flashed her big 
dark eyes, and she may have tossed her pret- 
ty head, as proof of her indifference, but she 
crept into the arms of the mother whose heart 
had been wounded through and through by the 
big woman's attitude toward her baby, and 
the baby lips framed the words, ''Muddie, 
don't she LOVE me any more ?" 

44 




ctR2 




'The Bad Little Girl" 



BOOK OF RAMBLING S 

The big woman who had said the bitter 
things about the bad Httle girl, called herself 
a good Christian, and belonged to a church. 
Perhaps, when she had been a little girl, some 
forty years ago, she may have snapped her 
eyes and tossed her head, and slapped a com- 
rade or taken something away from another — 
which charges were the blackest ones she could 
find to make against the bad little girl. 

Perhaps, too, some woman whose child she 
had bullied a little, as she thought the bad lit- 
tle girl had bullied hers, may have called HER 
a bad little girl, and have made dire predictions 
concerning the ultimate end of her career. 

I wonder, if such was the case — if the won- 
derment that there should be aught but love 
in this world she had known for so short a 
time, had trembled in her voice, as she asked, 
''Muddie, don't she LOVE me any more?" 

.*» .H ^ 

The bad little girl is like most people, even 
those who have been on earth longer, she gives 
as she receives. When a big, grown-up wo- 
man treats the bad little girl as if she really were 
a bad little girl, — then the bad little girl snaps 
her eyes, and stamps her foot, and maybe, 
makes a face and does as well as she can in her 
babyish innocence, to deserve the odium. 

On the other hand, when one gives love to 
the bad little girl, her dark eyes become lumin- 

46 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

ous and melting*, her red lips curve upward,— 
the bewitching dimple in her cheek deepens, 
and she simply radiates love from every pore. 
When she is treated with fairness and kind- 
ness, she is like the little boy of Eugene Field's 
conception, she says 'Tes'm to the ladies, and 
yessir to the men," — and is altogether ador- 
able. 



The bad little girl had been a-jaunting. On 
the car coming home she had fallen asleep, 
her head resting against her mother's shoulder. 
Her father had lifted her and carried her in his 
arms from the car. They passed the grim, dark 
house of the big, grown-up woman who had 
fastened the odium of ''bad little girl" upon 
the four-year-old baby. 

Perhaps as she slept, this big, grown-up 
woman enemy of a little child— she dreamed 
of her own babyhood, before the grind of liv- 
ing had sucked the sweetness from her nature. 
She may, even, in her dreams, have been a 
little child, carried in her father's arms, past 
a house where dwelt a woman who had 
thought her bad, and gossiped to the neighbors 
about her. Or mayhap she tossed in her sleep; 
a troubled sense may have broken her rest, 
and whispered to her in the night watches, 
''Shame, shame!" 

47 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

When the father of the bad little girl had 
laid his sleeping burden on the couch, he 
straightened up — and with his wife's hand 
clasped in his, looked down upon their sleep- 
ing darling. Her long, dark lashes rested on 
the rose leaf of her cheek, and her silky, dark 
hair was rumpled. So little she was, and so 
sweet — a little innocent baby thing, made to 
be loved and cherished! As they looked, he 
murmured, ''Such a bad little thing!" and by 
that remark the baby's mother knew the depth 
of resentment that lay beneath the surface of 
his feelings. 

^ ^ ^ 

However it was, whether the big grown-up 
woman had traveled back the weary mile- 
stones that lay between womanhood and baby- 
hood in her dreams the night before, or 
whether something — a vague dislike of that 
part of her which had caused her to find fault 
with her baby neighbor, or what it was- — I can- 
not say. But this I know, before the sun had 
climbed very high in the heavens the next day, 
the bad little girl was sitting on her side steps, 
holding her dollie, when a voice called to her. 
And there, by the alley fence, was the big 
grown-up woman, holding in her hand a chunk 
of fresh gingerbread, and smiling at her 
through tears. The bad little girl threw the 
dollie face down upon the grass, as she sped 

48 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

down the sidewalk. And to her credit may it 
be said, she spied the smile before she did the 
gingerbread, and put her soft Httle arms 
around her neck, and cried, 'Tou DO love me 
any more, don't you?" 



A Dream of Affluence 

A WOMAN there was, who had a Dream. 
In it she v/as the possessor of all kinds 
of servants, high class and low. Her Dream 
was not of wealth, just of servants. But the 
inference might safely be drawn that she 
could count her dollars up into the billions, 
since only a near-millionaire can afford to keep 
one nowadays. 

In her Dream was no limousine, no automo- 
bile, no electric, in fact none of the things 
which she desired, and which she had prom- 
ised herself when the tide should have turned, 
and her Day of Prosperity have approached. 
Instead, she had Servants. 

And she had an entirely new and original 
assortment of them, besides the ordinary ones 
that we know of by reading David Graham 
Phillips, and the other writers of Society as 
She is Lived in the East. There were butlers, 
and chefs, and footmen, and scullery maids, 

49 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

and all of the fifty-seven common varieties of 
the species. 

n St St 

But listen! There was one factotum bear- 
ing the official title of The Finder of Lost 
Articles. Previously, when school time ap- 
proached, this Woman of the Dream had to 
roll the piano from its corner, remove the reg- 
isters and crawl under the couch in the living 
room, in a mad scramble to help Willie find 
his cap, and little Gwendolyn her mittens, or 
to locate Percy's arithmetic, or Tom's base- 
ball, or Esther's coat. 

And then, at the eleventh hour, when there 
was weeping and wailing and gnashing of 
teeth, because tardiness at school was not to 
be tolerated, and Teacher, who had original 
and unique methods of punishment, would 
pull Esther's chin, or tap Willie's nose, the 
Earth which had opened up and swallowed the 
things, would disgorge them, on the sideboard 
among the cut glass, under the table in the 
kitchen, or behind the refrigerator. 

But NOW! In the Dream, she pushed a 
button, and The Finder of Lost Articles noise- 
lessly appeared, bearing the things in question 
upon a tray. 

Another high-salaried personage was the 
Overseer of Teeth, Ears and Fingernails. Time 
was, when Mother had had to personally in- 

50 



BOOK OF RAMB LINGS 

spect each tooth, ear and fingernail of her vari- 
ous oflfspring, to make sure that they should 
not go forth to proclaim her careless and slov- 
enly, as advertised by her loving children. 

And truth to tell, this Woman of Many 
Duties sometimes neglected the usual break- 
fast greeting. ''Good morning. Have you 
used your tooth brush? Did you wash your 
ears? Let me see your fingernails. Go back 
and try again." 

It required moral as well as physical strength 
to keep her children up to the standard of 
cleanliness demanded by the conventions of 
society and the laws of sanitation. 

This had been before the Dream. During 
that Interval of Blessed Surcease, the Overseer 
of Teeth, Ears and Fingernails did the neces- 
sary labor. Muffled sounds from the bath- 
room sometimes indicated that she earned her 
salary. Mother devoted the time previously 
employed in that direction to preparing a paper 
for her club on ''Child Culture. The Child's 

Best Good." 

1^ ^ 1^ 

And there was the Mender of Torn Gar- 
ments and Sewer-on of Buttons. Remember- 
ing her tasks along this line in her Day of 
Waking Hours, the woman had felt a sense of 
guilt in not dividing the job into two. But 
she quieted her conscience by adding to the 

51 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

salary of this useful member of the household. 
The time previously given over to mending 
and darning, she now employed in reading 
''Beauty Hints. My Method of Restoring Lost 
Youth," by Lillian Russell. 

0» (^ ^ 

This Woman of the Dream had one person- 
age knov/n as The Caller-in to Meals. He was 
very high-class, indeed, for he had just as many 
subs as the woman had children, whose work 
it was to capture a child and bring him to the 
table in spite of his screams. Upon the head 
Professor, yea, even the Caller-in to Meals 
himself, devolved the labor of getting the Man 
of the House corraled, and in his proper place 
at the head of the table, when the meals were 
ready. 

This lot of servants cost a great deal, but 
the woman felt it was worth it; no longer was 
it neecssary to eat lukewarm meals, nor strain 
her lungs in a hopeless endeavor to get all the 
members of her table to the table at one time. 

S8 ^ ^ 

But the Dream had its drawbacks, as well 
as its uses. Relieved of her tasks, the woman 
waxed fat, very fat! Having so much idle time 
on her hands, she read Ibsen and Maeterlinck 
till she grew mentally lop-sided. 

Not having the old-time anxiety at meal 
time, she enjoyed her meals so much that she 

52 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

ate to excess, and then came the superabun- 
dance of flesh. 

So when the Dream came to an end, and 
she awakened to the knowledge that with the 
dav/ning of the day had vanished the host of 
servants, she was not half sorry — even though 
it meant arising and cooking the luscious bacon 
and the toast for her own. 

To the family, life went on much as it had 
in her Dream, for they still had a Finder of 
Lost Articles, and Overseer of Teeth, Ears and 
Fingernails, a Mender of Torn Garments and 
Sewer-on of Buttons, and a Caller-in to Meals 
— all combined in the person of — Mother. 



My Neighbor 



THIS is a composite picture of my neighbor. 
Some people are so situated that the mean- 
ing of neighbor is: one whose back porch is 
an oflfense; one whose chickens scratch up 
one's garden; one whose puppy rolls in one's 
flower bed, and whose cat yowls under one's 
window; one whose children track mud on 
one's front walk; one who throws rubbish over 
the fence into one's back yard; one who keeps 
perpetual watch behind drawn blinds, to keep 
tally on one's goings out and one's coming in. 

53 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

But that is not MY NEIGHBOR. My neigh- 
bor is never intrusive. When I would be left 
alone, 1 am alone. When I am lonely, she 
comes to me. When I am hungry, she feeds 
me; when I am weary, she rests me; and when 
I am athirst, she gives me of the Cup of Friend- 
ship — that cup which never becomes empty, 
no matter how deeply I quaff its contents. 
^ ^ ^ 

My neighbor reads the books that I have not 
time to read, and she gives them to me in her 
own quaint way. My neighbor comes into my 
house when I feel the need of her. When I 
want to be talked to, she talks to me, and when 
I wish to be silent, she, too, is silent. And 
when my soul is turbulent, she softly plays the 
piano for me, until the sweetness and harmony 
to which her fingers give expression find 
lodgement in my consciousness. 

My neighbor is young and gay and pretty. 
Her merry laughter ripples across the yard, 
vaults the fence, and penetrates the darkest 
corner of my house. The presence of my 
neighbor is the breath of lilies. 

My neighbor's hair is gray, and to some her 
eyes might seem dimmed by the years she has 
seen. But I see only the young heart of her, 
and I partake of the joyousness of her ever- 
youth. 

54 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

My neighbor comes to me when she is in 
trouble, and this I regard as the greatest com- 
pliment she can pay me. When trials and bur- 
dens press heavily upon me, I go to my neigh- 
bor, sure of her ready sympathy and of her 
understanding heart. 

My neighbor tells me how to set the pockets 
in the littlest one's wee trousers, and she ad- 
vises me as to the length of the daughter's 
skirts. My neighbor shares her choicest re- 
cipes with me. My neighbor honors me with 
her confidence. My neighbor comes to me 
when the sugar gives out, and I go to her when 
an tgg is needed for the cake I am about to 
bake. 

My neighbor knows intuitively when other 
work is pressing, and the baking being neg- 
lected, and when the need is greatest she ap- 
pears like a ministering angel with a pan of 
rolls, a loaf of fresh bread, a cake or a pie, or 
a bowl of apple sauce. 

^ 3f u^ 

On days that friends have seemed unkind 
or neglectful; days when one feels keenly the 
isolation and loneliness that comes sometimes 
to the happiest woman, if she be a woman who 
belongs to no ''crowd" my neighbor telephones 
and asks me to take the littlest one and go to 
a picture show. 

My neighbor bolsters up my pride when it 

55 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



has been dealt a blow. When i have been 
made conscious that the gray is becoming- 
noticeable in my hair and that my nev/ ''bun- 
nit" is unbecoming, my neighbor says some 
nice little thing that makes me perk up and' 
feel good. 

a* ij» (j» 

At times when my mind becomes weary and 
overtaxed and refuses utterly to perform its 
accustomed work; when in despair I cry to 
myself, ''Oh, what's the use?" my neighbor 
comes, and she tells me that something I have 
written has helped her over a rough place. And 
then the morning stars sing together, and my 
mind leaps to its task, like a race horse to its 
course, and all is well again. 

And when the hour of trial comes, the hour 
when my soul goes down into the very depths, 
and lies numbed and dull and stupefied and 
unhearing, it is my neighbor who follows me 
down into the darkness, and reaches out for 
me, and gently, lovingly, tenderly leads me 
back to the light of day, 

Is it any wonder that the name is very dear 
to me, MY NEIGHBOR? 



56 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



The Wall a Woman Built 



A 



WOMAN built a high wall around herself, 
- ■ and sat down to gloat over it. And the 
stones whereof she builded were bigotry, 
haughtiness, pride of family, smugness of con- 
ceit over her achievements, and aloofness 
from all that she deemed common and ordi- 

For a while she was so absorbed m her wall 
that she did not miss the companionship of 
her fellov/s. Then she began to v/onder what 
had become of her old-time friends and to ask 
herself if they v/ere missing her. 

Later, she grew a trifle piqued because they 
did not come near her. She wanted them to 
come and admire her wall, even though they 
would have to climb over it to reach her, and 
in the eifort would likely be scratched and 
bruised and wounded. 

She waited, and she waited, and the waiting 
grew irksome. Day after day, week after 
week, month after month, went by, and no 
one came to admire her wall and to pass the 
time o' day with her. 

But she told herself that she did not care. 
But she could not look herself in the eye when 
she said it, for she knew that she lied. She 
knew that she did care. She knew that the 

57 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

woman heart of her longed for warm, human 
companionship. 

In time the yearning became intense. She 
no longer wanted her friends to come just to 
exclaim over the superiority of her wall, and 
to envy. She just wanted someone to visit 
with; she wanted to chat about all the little in- 
consequential things of big consequence; she 
wanted to gossip, harmlessly; she wanted to 
exchange recipes, to borrow and lend ideas. 
She no longer wanted just to give — she wanted 
to receive. 

^ ^ 3t 

The months became years, and still she sat 
behind her wall, and waited. The brown of 
her hair became silver; the furrows in cheek 
and brow deepened. The time came when she 
felt old age creeping upon her, and the wait- 
ing grew intolerable. 

She determined to climb to the top of her 
wall and see what was going on in the world. 
But the years that had silvered her hair had 
sapped her strength, and she found the feat 
impossible. 

So, with trembling hands she pried loose a 
few stones from her wall, and peered out at 
the world. 

The people who passed by were all in a 
hurry. They were like a lot of busy bees; and 
they had no time to loiter to talk to a poor old 

58 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

woman who had isolated herself behind a stone 
wall. 

Even her old friends, when they passed, had 
small time to talk to her. Of one such she 
asked the reason, and he said, ^'Haven't you 
heard? It is a forward movement that is go- 
ing on all over the world. There are few idlers 
left. Everyone is busy — either in solving his 
own or his brother's problem. You'd better 
come out and join the procession." 

''But I can't," cried the woman; ''this wall 
that I built with such care holds me." 

"Oh, that?" and the busy friend smiled con- 
temptuously. "Better tear it down, my friend. 
It's of no use to you or to anyone else." 

I^ OW <?• 

And so the woman began to tear down, 
stone by stone, the wall she had built. It had 
taken time to build — the stones had been 
carefully put together with the cement of self- 
ishness, and it could not be torn down in a day. 

But the poor, lonely, broken old woman, 
who had come to see how she had cheated 
herself, worked at it faithfully, stone by stone, 
praying always for strength and endurance to 
complete her work. 

^ ^ BW 

The task was finally finished. The last 
stone fell, and the woman was freed. She 
stood in brooding silence, watching the busy 

59 



BOOK OF RAM B LINGS 

people going by. Some went singing, some 
praying; a few went cursing; some laughed 
as they passed along, and others wept; some 
had the sprightliness of youth in their steps, 
some the faltering of age. 

At first it seemed to the watcher that she 
had lost her place; that the years she had sat 
alone had unfitted her for the march. At the 
thought, the tears of humility filled her eyes. 

Then, as her vision cleared, she saw others 
stumbling along in uncertainty, and she 
thought, ''Perhaps if I, too, join in the march, 
I can help someone who is weaker than 1." 

So, at last, she stood in the light; she raised 
her eyes to the everlasting hills. Her lips 
moved silently in thanksgiving, and then, old, 
and bent, and broken though she was, she took 
her place in the procession. 



The Man WKo Wanted to Help 

'T'HE man who v/anted to help piled a lot of 
^ dishes, glassware, china, crockery, tin- 
ware, silver, and granite into a huge dishpan, 
poured some lukewarm water over them, and 
plunged in up to his elbows, with an expres^ 
sion of grim determination on his face. 
The woman who was willing to be helped 

60 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

took one look and fled. Long experience with 
the man who wanted to help had taught her 
that if he was going to help it must be in the 
way of his own appointing, not hers. 

And long experience with the old-maid part 
of her — not the woman who was willing to 
be helped part, but the part that had a certain 
system and thought it the only system, told 
her she would shriek, if compelled to remain 
in the kitchen with the man who wanted to 
help, with his haphazard method of accom- 
plishing things. 

So the woman who was willing to be helped 
gently led the other part of her into the living 
room, and let her begin straightening the books 
and magazines in her own prim little fashion. 

t^ ^ ^ 

The man who wanted to help threw the dish 
water out over the back steps and walk, 
tossed the damp dish-towel over the back of 
a convenient chair, and went into the other 
part of the house to see what further assist-- 
ance he could render. 

When he saw that the woman who was 
willing to be helped was trying to restore order 
out of chaos, he shoved her out. ''You go do 
something else. I'll do this room." 

The other part of her started to rebel, as she 
saw him going hit or miss at things, and she 

62 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

bit her lips to keep from saying, 'That's not 
the way to do W But the woman who was 
willing to be helped whispered to her, ''Come 
upstairs and make the beds." 

S» !?• !?• 

After he had finished the living room, which 
he did in an incredibly short space of time, the 
man who wanted to help followed the woman 
who was willing to be helped, upstairs, and 
took away her task, that of making the beds, 
saying: "Go down stairs and read the paper. 
Cultivate your mind by reading Jaura Lean 
Jibbey, and your body by reading Rillian Lus- 
sell. If you think you're too fat, roll on the 
floor, or do whatever else she tells you to do. 
Only, STOP WORKING! I'm having my 
vacation now, and you're having yours, and 
I want you to enjoy it." 

The other part of the woman started to pro- 
test, but she was taken gently by the shoulder, 
and helped toward the stairs. When she saw 
the living room, she gasped. A collar belong- 
ing to the man who wanted to help lovingly 
encircled a vase on the piano. One of his 
shoes was on the couch, and his cravat was 
reposing on the rug. His hat decorated the 
top of the table, and a coat hung over the door 
of the closet, which stood wide open, reveal- 
ing several empty hooks, and a hat rack. 

But he had straightened up the table. All 

63 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

of the magazines had been neatly tied and left 
on the floor, ready for the furnace; the books 
had been laid side by side in even rows upon 
the top of the table. The waste basket bulged 
with its contents, there were scraps of paper 
on the floor, and dust lay thick upon bookcase 

and chairs. 

n ^ ,% 

The woman who was willing to be helped 
led the other part of her away — through the 
dining room, with the crumbs still on the table, 
into the kitchen, bestrewn with the dishes that 
had been washed by the man who wanted to 
help — and the floor unswept! 

The other part of her sat down in a state of 
utter despair, but the woman who was willing 
to be helped said, with rare philosophy, ''Bless 
his dear heart, don't let him know that you 
don't like his method. Wait until he goes 
down town, which he probably will, to read 
the baseball score, and then we will clean up 
after him." 

In a few minutes the man who wanted to 
help came down the stairs, calling cheerily, 
''Well, my work's all done— fine as a top. I 
say, you women folks that just have house- 
work to do, have a snap. Why, I haven't been 
at it an hour, and the work's all done. Say, 
have you seen my collar? And where's my 
hat? I'm going down to read the baseball 

64 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

score, and maybe look in at the office just to 
gloat over the fellows that have already had 
their vacations, and are back digging. Now 
you just loaf and read and have a good time 
till I get back." 

OW tf» 0» 

Dear, thoughtful man who wanted to help 
— happy in the belief that he had made the 
day easier for the woman who was willing to 
be helped. 

And so he had. For there was a smile on 
her lips that even the other part of her — the 
silly, precise part — was unable to quench, as 
she flew around with dust-cloth and mop, do- 
ing the work according to her own method. 



A Tribute 

IN a distant city, in a large, hospitable old 
southern-style House of Pleasant Memories, 
lies a woman today, her wrinkled hands folded 
across her quiet breast, her beautiful eyes 
closed to the grief about her for the first time 
in over seventy years. I would like to say a 
few words about her, though my heart is 
heavy and sad. Her life is one of the most 
beautiful lessons taught by example. She was 
one of those rare souls who spoke love always. 

65 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

If in her heart she could find no good to speak 
— and I doubt if any person ever crossed her 
path that she did not divine some good in him 
—at least she would speak no evil. In her 
youth she must have been good looking, with 
the features, the coloring and the figure of 
beauty. In her mature years she was beauti- 
ful, from the character-building which had 
gone on through all the years, giving to her 
eyes the depth of unspeakable tenderness 
which drew people to her wherever she went. 
^ ^ ^ 

She led so quiet and simple a life that it 
might have been supposed that her influence 
would have been restricted to her family, and 
her small circle of acquaintances. But such 
was not the case. A charity as sweet and 
broad as hers, a love as expansive, found its 
way out into the world, and in all the city 
where she made her home no name, perhaps, 
was spoken which brought the whispered 
blessings, from high and low, from rich and 
poor, as did hers. 

She was not a fashionable woman. But one 
never noticed her clothes. There was a maj- 
esty in her bearing, a benevolence in her glance 
that made mere clothes seem trivial and com- 
monplace. There was true aristocracy in her 
every movement, which made people know 
that the bluest blood in the nation flowed in 

66 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

her veins. Yet there was not a creature so 
iinterate and plebian in the whole community 
who would not go to her in trouble. 

She did not go abroad to dispense charity. 
She did not need so to do. Those in need of 
charity came to her doorstep, certain of her 
sweet understanding and help. 

0» 1^ (^ 

She was not a society woman, though she 
could have been had she so desired, for none 
in the town bore a prouder name. But she 
had no time for society. She never played a 
game of bridge in her life. Golf was to her a 
name. She had never learned to dance. Yet 
there was not a society woman in the town 
but would stop her busy round of pleasure- 
going for a chance to talk with her. 

She was not a rich woman, as the world 
counts riches. Yet of her abundance she gave 
unstintedly, and none who partook of her 
wealth, so lavishly given, ever forgot the gift, 

or the giver. 

(^ (^ ij» 

Once, when she was quite a young woman, 
with her brood of little children about her, two 
young girls who had been driven from the 
place they called home, by the police, came 
to her door. It was late in the evening, and 
it was storming. Her own life was so pure 
and white that had she been the average church 

61 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

member, she would have shut the door upon 
them, and turned them back upon the Broad 
Road they had trod. 

Even there the story of her sweetness and 
her charity had penetrated. And these girls, 
with no friends in all the city — girls who had 
mothers breaking their hearts for them at 
home — went to the only haven they could be 
sure of— went with the story of shame upon 
their lips. And she took them in — this lovely, 
brave woman. She housed them, she shel- 
tered them, and she did more than that, for 
the poor wayward things. 

She did not give them charity, as might 
some have done, handing it to them with tongs, 
to escape contamination. She knew that she 
could not be contaminated by any act of love. 
After keeping them over night, and giving 
them material food- — she gave them more. She 
talked to them as tenderly as a mother might 
have talked. She did not withhold love — she 
gave it freely. 

The result was that two penitent, sorrowing 
young girls turned their faces toward home, 
where two mothejs were watching and wait- 
ing and praying. 

And the good angel who had sent them to 
the one human source of help in all that city 
must have wept tears of joy. For is it not 
said that there is more rejoicing over the one 

68 



BOOK OF RAMBLING S 

that returns to the fold than over the ninety 
and nine who have remained within the shel- 
tering arms of the Shepherd? 

The woman who had brought about this 
consummation — whose loving charity had re- 
turned them to the fold — went on her way 
serenely, without one self-righteous thought to 
mar her perfect work. 

^ St M 

Her story is ended. There are tears today 
in her death chamber. There are sorrowing 
hearts to whom the whole world seems empty 
— with her away. In the city where for more 
than half a century she has modestly lived, 
unmindful of the wonderful influence wrought 
by her love and charity and purity, there is 
grief and sorrow. People are telling each 
other in choking voices of how she will be 
missed, of how the very thought that she is 
no longer in the old house which her presence 
has endeared to so many, will cause poignant 
pain. 

They are covering the casket which con- 
tains the dear body, with flowers. They are 
sobbingly looking for the last time upon the 
beautiful, blessed face which never was 
marred by unlovely lines of age or of bitter- 
ness. They are wondering why the sun shines, 
or the roses bloom, or the birds sing — since 
she is gone. 

69 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

And yet, what cause for rejoicing is theirs 
— though they know it not! Had she taken 
with her into that fuller life into which she has 
entered, any lurking hatred or malice; any 
memory of injustice done anyone, or of selfish- 
ness — it would be diflferent. But she has 
taken what she has given, no more, no less. 
And she gave — love; and they must know, if 
they believe anything — and who is there who 
in his heart can doubt ? — that she is bathed in 
the ineflfable sunshine of love — with only 
themselves groping in the darkness, on this 
side of the curtain which has veiled her from 
them. 

And some day the curtain will lift, and they 
will see, even as they are seen, and know, even 
as they are known. 



TeacKer 

TEACHER was going home with him to din- 
ner! It was a big day for the small boy, 
about the most important day of all the days 
of his seven years. His heart was like down 
in his bosom, and he was as chesty as a pouter 
pigeon, on this day. 

The little girls who went his way swarmed 
around Teacher like bees around a rose. One 

70 



BOOK OF RAMBLING S 

of the Clinging Vines among them hung onto 
her hand on the other side. Pooh! Teacher 
wasn't going home to dinner with that httle 
girl with her hippety-hop and her skippety- 
skip! She might make eyes as big as saucers 
at Teacher, but it would not do her any good. 

Teacher could not be deflected by any such 
tricks. For Teacher was going home to din- 
ner with HIM! 

'Course he didn't hold her hand. He just 
walked beside her. He had a right, on this 
day of days, to walk beside her. Folks might 
think she was going home to dinner with that 
girl who was hanging onto her on the other 
side, but she wasn't. She was going home 
with him. 

^ ^ 39 

Mother had given him a note to take to 
Teacher the day before, and had told him she 
was inviting Teacher to take dinner with them 
the next day. And Teacher had given him a 
note to take to Mother in reply. It was writ- 
ten on a little piece of note paper, folded in 
a triangle, and written on the outside, in 
Teacher's most precise handwriting was, ''Mrs. 
Smith. Kindness of William." 

Kindness of William! Gee, that looked 
SOME like he was a big boy! He'd lick any 
boy that called him Willie after this! 

71 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

And now she was walking home with him. 
One by one the little girls dropped oflf as they 
reached their own corners. Finally even the 
Clinging Vine on the other side reluctantly 
abandoned them, when she came to the cross- 
roads that led to her own home. 

He had never been glad before that he lived 
farther'n the other children. At first a con- 
straint seized the small man; a spasm of em- 
barrassment such as occasionally attacks the 
most seasoned entertainer, when he finds the 
burden of conversation resting upon him. 

But pshaw, it wasn't hard to talk to 
Teacher! Always before she had been a sort 
of goddess. But now, she seemed like — well, 
just folks. For she was going home with him 
to dinner. 

tf* iJ8 a» 

She believed in fairies, too. That was won- 
derful! She sometimes heard them whisper- 
ing secrets to her, when she kept just as still! 
They told her when the Spring was coming, 
long before anybody else knev/ it. Sometimes, 
when it seemed like there was nothing but 
winter anywhere, the Fairies would whisper, 
''Close your eyes so you can't see that the 
ground is frozen. Pull your wraps around 
you so you can't feel the cold. Shut your 
ears so you can't hear the wind whistling 
through the bare branches." 

72 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

And what do you think? Teacher, she'd do 
what the fairies told her to do, and she'd smell 
the violets and johnny-jump-ups. And it 
wouldn't be cold anymore, 'cause she'd know 
that the spring sunshine was all around her. 
And the wind wasn't wind at all, but just 
spring breezes. It was wonderful! 

(^ (^ 0» 

And sometimes. Teacher said, when she 
thought that friends were cold, like the winter, 
and when she believed that there were such 
things as enemies in the world, just like little 
children believed there were such things as 
bad fairies, she'd hear the good fairies whisper- 
ing to her, ''Close the door of your heart on 
that winter draught: shut your eyes on that 
thought of evil," and guess what would 
happen! 

You could never guess, but Teacher'd tell 
you. Teacher would find that her friends 
were not cold at all, like the winter. She had 
just thought they were, because she hadn't 
been letting the good fairies talk to her. 

And she would find that the only enemies 
she had were the bad thoughts she had let into 
her heart. And the bad thoughts were the 
bad fairies. 

And so, after she found that out. Teacher 
would just slam the door in their faces, when- 
ever they poked their meddlesome little noses 

73 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

into her business. She wasn't even polite to 
those bad fairies. Teacher wasn't. 

She tried awful hard to be polite and nice 
to the good fairies. She said 'Tes'm," and 
''No, sir," and ''if you please," and "Thank 
you," to the good fairies, because they were 
so nice to her, and she wanted to be nice to 
them, so they would come again. 

But she didn't waste any time being polite 
to those bad fairies, '"cause she didn't want 
their company. Teacher, she didn't." 

Mother had told the little lad something 
about fairies. But she had said that it was only 
women folks that believed in fairies any more. 
Boys might believe in them but she was afraid 
that when they went out into the world, they 
saw so many things that were diflferent that 
they forgot all about the stories their mothers 
had told them when they were small. 

Mother had said that once when Father had 
laughted at something, and said it was a fairy 
story and too good to be true. Mother had 
said, with a kind o' sad look in her eyes, "Oh, 
let him keep his illusions as long as he can!" 

He didn't know what illusions were, but 
anyway, he wanted to keep them, if Mother 
wanted him to. And if it had anything to do 
with fairies, he was going to keep them, 
'specially after what Teacher had told him 
about them! 

74 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

It's funny what a short walk it is to one's 
home — when Teacher goes home to dinner! 
But it is nice to see Mother smiling a welcome 
on the front porch. And it's fine to see the 
baby toddling on the grass, all so sweet and 
clean and dainty. 

And it makes a little boy happy to hear 
Teacher and Mother talking together at the 
dinner table, even if he can't always under- 
stand what it's about. 

Gee, it's fine, when Teacher comes home 
to dinner! 



A House Cleaning, 

You have been cleaning house this week. 
The rhythmic beat, beat, beat on the car- 
pets has betrayed the fact. The Mender of 
Worn Furniture has carted off half your 
chairs to repair the damage done during the 
past season. The winter clothes and the bed- 
ding are airing on the line, and the front porch 
is filled up with books and bric-a-brac and 
tables and all kinds of folderols. 

As you have gone in and out among your 
possessions, with your head tied up in a towel, 
and a wet rag in your hand with which you 
have made a swipe at everything in sight, you 

75 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

have sighed over the utter foolishness of ma- 
terial acquisitiveness. 

You have promised yourself that some day 
you would give away or destroy all superflu- 
ous furnishings, and eliminate the slavery 
which their possession entails. 
1^ j» (j» 

You have said the same thing each spring 
in the years of your responsibility. And then, 
what have you done? 

You have finally reached the attic in your 
peregrinations, with the grim determination to 
clear it of everything not absolutely essential 
to your housekeeping. 

You have sat down on the floor beside an 
old trunk, and from its depths you have hauled 
an old, sheer, big sleeved, unfashionable dress. 
Nothing about it is useful. It would probably 
go to pieces if you tried to rip it up. The lit- 
tle daughter would turn up her nose at it, so 
if you had any idea of utilizing it for her, you 
might as well abandon the notion. 

Yet, — you do not cast it into the scrap heap. 
You tenderly and reverently fold it, and put 
it back into the trunk. It is not the flimsy, 
funny looking old gown you are preserving. 
It is what the gown represents — YOUTH, 
with its glorious promises, its hopes, its splen- 
did possibilities! 

You wore that gown to your first really- 

76 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 



truly grown-up party! You wore a rose in 
your hair, and twin roses in your cheeks. Your 
eyes were aglow with the light of expectation. 

^'Enough was the joy of mere living, 
Enough was the blood's quick thrill! 

You were simply happy, you knew not why, 
You were happy beyond your will." 

39 ^ v9 

It was such a PERFECT evening! Life has 
held many pleasures for you since, and much 
of real happiness, without the froth of the 
earlier days, but that one evening stands out 
from all the others; it is unique, for it marked 
your emergence into the period of your grown- 
up-ness. 

And that is why you keep the old gown. 
And that is why you will still have the memory 
of that perfect evening, long after the fabric 
of the dress has fallen into shreds. 

And here you sit and pore over the contents 
of an old box which you have pulled from the 
darkest recess of the attic. The letters and 
papers contained therein are yellowed by age 
and covered with dust. You have told your- 
self that THIS time you would destroy these 
old things that simply clutter up the house. 

But you will keep this letter. It is one that 
Father wrote you when you were off at board- 
ing;- school. In it, he expressed his faith in 

77 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

you, and in your future. You cannot see to 
read it well. The light is very bad in this cor- 
ner. That — or something — makes it seem 
blurred to your vision. But you know what 
it says. The letter is not long, and each word 
is written in your heart. You do not need to 
keep it — but you carefully lay it with the pile 
of treasures to be retained. 

There is another one which you do not at- 
tempt to read. It is from your mother, and 
you do not feel that your strength is sufficient, 
even now, for you to read the dear hand- 
writing. 

This brief one, in the boyish hand, from the 
little brother so long lost — you read it with a 
tenderly reminiscent look in your eyes. It 
was written you once when you were away 
from home on a visit, and you recall that this 
letter hastened your return, because he said 
that the old dog looked lonesome and didn't 
seem to enjoy his meals while you were gone. 

Down in one corner of the box you find 
an envelope containing a date and a few dried 
flowers. There are other envelopes, also con- 
taining flowers, each with a different date. 

You smile as you realize that the flowers 
and the dates are alike meaningless to you; 
that they have had no real influence upon your 
life. But because you know that at one time 
they were important to you; because you 

7^ 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

know that they belonged to that perioa of your 
young ladyhood, they, too, are carefully re- 
placed. 

Finally you kneel beside a small chest and 
open it. There is a light in your eyes which 
was not there on that one perfect evening; 
a light which all the centuries of time cannot 
obliterate. 

Here is a tiny dress, into which your fingers 
wrought the highest hopes and aspirations that 
ever come to a woman. It was made for your 
first born. And here is a wee shoe, and there 
a quaint little sacque. Tenderly you view 
your treasures, smooth out the creases and 
brush off the dust which has accrued to them. 

Each one sings a song to your answering 
heart — a lullaby. 

The sun declines, and twilight sadness steals 
over the attic, yet still you sit with your treas- 
ures around you. The wearers of the tiny 
garments are scattered, — yet all that made 
your motherhood remains. Nothing can rob 
you of the sweetness and the deep happiness 
that it has given you. 

St n n 

With the sigh of personal renunciation that 
every mother sooner or later experiences, you 
have carefully replaced the treasures in the 
little trunk. 

You turn at the door of the attic to survey 

79 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

the extent of the promised clearing out of rub- 
bish; and, if you have a saving sense of humor, 
you smile at your weakness, — smile all the 
more courageously, because there is a lump 
in your throat. 



The Woman Who Dreamed 

A WOMAN there was who sat and looked 
into the glowing embers of a log fire and 
dreamed dreams. She dreamed of the great 
achievements which should be hers, of the 
songs she would sing, the books she would 
write, the pictures she would paint. 

And as she dreamed, the logs fell apart — 
the glow diminished, and there remained but 
the ashes of what had once been warmth and 
cheer. Still the woman sat and strove to 
warm herself by what had been a fire. 

The world passed on. There had been 
times when her fire had burned the brightest, 
that folks had stopped for a moment to warm 
themselves, and to partake of the cheer. But 
the energy within had called, and they had 
leaped to the call. They had passed on and 
she had remained to dream. 

They came and went, but they tarried not. 
A restless, surging throng, were they, with 

80 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

the inspiration to do, tugging incessantly at 
the strings of their being. 

!?• (^ rf» 

Some there had been, who had found the 
companionship of the dreamer soothing, and 
so had hngered, till the chill of the dying fire 
had penetrated their consciousness, and they 
had roused themselves and gone the way of 
the others, out into the busy marts where peo- 
ple were striving for glory, for fame, for 
wealth, for life itself. 

(?• (j» 1^ 

And the dreamer dreamed on. Once, when 
her fire was burning with a steady flame, — 
when it and dissolution seemed so very far 
apart, that they were not associated in the 
mind of anyone, folks had watched the dream- 
er and said, ''She is going to do something. 
We shall hear from her some day." 

One generation gave way to another gen- 
eration, and the woman dreamed on. The 
people hurried by now, each one intent on 
his own mission, with seldom a glance at the 
dreaming woman. 

Sometimes, out of the dreary cheerlessness 
of the Never Has Been, would step a derelict, 
to whom even the dying ashes of What Had 
Been, offered some solace, and he would tarry. 

But not for long. For to each one who had 
eyes to see and a heart to understand, was 

82 



BOOK OF RAMBLINGS 

given a glimpse of — What Might Be, by Do- 
ing, — and the derelict would pass on, with his 
face toward the goal that had lured them, one 
by one, away from the fire which was bound 
to go out. 

(?• <3» <?• 

And so the woman sat alone by her dead 
fire and dreamed of the things she had never 
done. She had visions of the work she had 
never accomplished. 

While out in the world beyond, where had 
gone her companions, others were winning 
and wearing the laurels they had worked for, 
had fought, bled and almost died for. 

The time came, as was inevitable, when she 
ceased even to dream. The chill of the dead 
ashes enveloped her, body and soul, — she was 
benumbed, — she no longer dreamed, — she no 
longer WAS! All of her bright, beautiful 
dreams had left her, and she had, — nothing. 

There is not much more to be said, only 
this, — dreams, when put into action, bring 
happiness, success and the realization of 
achievement. Dreams which lie dormant, be- 
come, like the fire the woman had kindled, — 
the dead ashes of hope, the grave of endeavor, 
— they do not warm, they do not inspire, and 
they finally paralyze effort and produce the 
mental lethargy which precedes oblivion. 

83 



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